The road to Aeltharion was a winding ribbon of ancient stone, flanked by whispering pines that stretched towards a sky the color of bruised plums. Caelen walked with an easy, ground-eating stride, his gaze fixed on the distant, shimmering spires of Aeltharion. Fileyele, however, seemed less preoccupied with their destination and more with the journey's puzzling necessity. "Again," she prodded, her voice a low, melodic hum that carried easily in the quiet air. "Why do we need their help? We've managed well enough on our own. You're a the troublesome human, and I..." She gestured vaguely, as if to encompass her own considerable abilities.
Caelen sighed, the sound a soft gust against the chilly morning. "Because, Fileyele, there are some things even a helpless human such as I and a witch can't simply 'manage.' Your... markings." He gestured to her exposed forearms, where intricate, swirling tattoos peeked from beneath the loose sleeves of her travel cloak, hinting at more elaborate patterns on her neck and legs. "They aren't just pretty designs, are they? They scream 'witch' to anyone who knows what they're looking at. Even if you covered them completely, which is a feat in itself, curiosity is a potent force. And let's be blunt, your beauty—that otherworldly grace that seems to hum with latent power—it attracts all the wrong sorts. Witches aren't just beautiful by human standards, are they? It's like mana itself weaves through your very essence."
Fileyele hummed, a note of amused agreement. "A hazard of the craft, I suppose." "Precisely. And Aeltharion is no mere village. It's a kingdom of laws, and prejudices. Better to seek their aid than to invite suspicion." As they neared Aeltharion's formidable outer walls, the air thickened with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Towering gates of wrought iron and polished darkwood loomed before them, flanked by stone bastions manned by vigilant guards. Before the first challenge could be issued, Fileyele's fingers twitched, and a subtle shimmer passed over their forms. The plain, functional cloaks they wore now seemed to deepen in color, their faces shadowed by the illusion of deep-set hoods. A low thrum of protective magic settled around them, a whisper of a disguise.
A burly guard, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, stepped forward to halt them. "State your business, travelers. And drop your hoods." Caelen held up a hand, subtly signaling Fileyele to keep her own hood precisely where it was. With a practiced motion, he pulled back his own, revealing his face to the light. The guard's eyes, previously narrowed in suspicion, widened comically. His jaw went slack, and he stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. Surprise flickered across Caelen's features. "What in the...?" Caelen began, but his words were lost as more guards rushed to their comrade's aid, their gazes locking onto Caelen's face. A collective gasp rippled through them. They stared, not with recognition, but with a shock bordering on horror, as if gazing upon a specter. "What's wrong?" Caelen asked, genuinely bewildered by their reactions. One of the guards, a younger man with a face pale as alabaster, pointed a trembling finger. "Hands up! Imposter!" he barked, his voice cracking. "Imposter?" Caelen spluttered, indignant. "It's me! Caelen, the Knight-Hero! What is this nonsense?" Before he could complete his protest, the rhythmic clatter of steel against stone filled the air as several spears were brought to bear, their polished tips glinting ominously in his direction. "Woah, woah, calm down," Caelen urged, his hands rising in a placating gesture. "Let's not escalate this."
A grizzled veteran guard, his eyes sharper than the rest, squinted past Caelen to where Fileyele stood, still shrouded. "And you, girl! Show your face!" he demanded, his tone laced with suspicion. A palpable tension settled over the courtyard. Fileyele paused, a beat of silence stretching into an eternity. The guard's voice sharpened, "Now! Or we'll assume the worst!" Caelen, sensing her hesitation, quickly interjected, "She's my sister! She's... sensitive to bright lights." "Your sister?" another guard scoffed, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "If you truly were the Knight-Hero, you'd be lying. He never had a sister. The man was four hundred years old! He's a legend!" Caelen winced, realizing his error. "Right, yes, well, a distant relative! Very distant. We were separated at birth, almost, you see." "The Knight-Hero was the only survivor of the Aurelwyn massacre," the first guard stated, his eyes narrowed. "I never heard of any other survivors."
"She was in another village during the time!" Caelen countered, his voice beginning to take on a strained edge. "A family visit! She missed the whole, terrible ordeal." From beneath her hood, Fileyele's voice, laced with an almost casual curiosity, cut through the tension. "And how can you be four hundred years old, looking as young as you are, 'brother'?" Caelen snapped his gaze to her, a vein throbbing faintly at his temple. "Thank you, dear sister," he bit out, stressing the last word. "But as I've always told you, I don't age." "And if she's your sister, how come she doesn't know that?" a guard pressed, his voice dripping with skepticism. All the guards' brows rose in unison, their gazes fixed on Caelen. "She doesn't know because we've been apart for so long!" Caelen blurted, a fresh wave of improvisation hitting him. "And she has... memory problems! My poor sister, short-term amnesia! She's had it since she was born, bless her heart. I had to remind her even when it was time for sleep!"
From the depths of her hood, Fileyele's eyebrow rose perceptibly, her shock at Caelen's wildly imaginative fabrication almost palpable. "If that's truly true, as you claim, how is she alive after so many years?" another guard challenged. "Because," Caelen declared, seizing on the new angle with desperate energy, "she also has another rare disease that prevents her from aging properly!" Fileyele stirred, about to protest this latest, outlandish claim, but Caelen's hand shot out, clamping gently but firmly over her mouth, silencing her mid-syllable. The knights exchanged glances, then nodded slowly, a strange agreement passing between them. Caelen and Fileyele exchanged bewildered looks. Had that actually worked?
To their astonishment, the knights parted, creating a path to the open gates. "It is permissible for you to enter," one of them finally stated, his voice devoid of its previous hostility. "But you must first speak to the Queen. She will be your judge." With an air of surreal acceptance, the knights led them through the massive gates, which swung shut with a resounding thud behind them, sealing them within the walls of the kingdom. Fileyele seemed on edge, her posture stiff as she moved through the throng of humans. The streets were bustling, but as they passed, people stopped, stared, and gasped, their murmurs rippling through the crowd. Caelen, initially surprised by the attention, tried to offer a friendly wave and a reassuring smile, but the people recoiled, their faces contorting in fear rather than welcome. He lowered his hand, utterly baffled.
They reached the majestic gates of the castle, an even grander structure than the kingdom's outer defenses. Here, the accompanying guards left them in the charge of a new pair of castle guards, turning back towards the kingdom gates. The castle gates, immense frames of gleaming gold, swung open silently, revealing a sprawling, meticulously maintained garden. Fileyele gasped, a small, involuntary sound of awe escaping her. She quickly tried to conceal it, pulling her hood further forward, but Caelen had already caught the brief, delighted grin that had curved her lips.
As they neared the imposing entrance to the throne room, Fileyele's whisper, sharp and low, cut through Caelen's unease. "Remember, if I die, you die." Caelen swallowed, a dry knot forming in his throat. "Calm down," he murmured, his voice strained. "Nothing is going to happen to us." Despite his words, a prickle of disquiet danced along his spine. The enormous throne room doors swung open, revealing a vast, opulent chamber. The Queen was visible in the distance, seated on a raised dais. Fileyele's eyes, even from afar, fixed on her. "Caelen," she breathed, her usual composure momentarily cracked. "Is she truly human? Her beauty rivals that of a witch."
"Don't you dare say that to her face," Caelen muttered, quickly. They halted before the dais. Caelen executed a deep, respectful bow. Fileyele, however, remained rooted to the spot, looking utterly unnerved, her gaze unwavering on the Queen. Caelen straightened, beginning his formal introduction, but no immediate response came. He raised his head, meeting the Queen's gaze, only to find her eyes fixed not on him, but on the unbowed witch beside him. The Queen's gaze, sharp as a winter's wind, lingered on Fileyele, who remained stubbornly upright. The silent defiance hung in the air, a thick, palpable insult. Caelen, his heart sinking, saw the danger immediately. This wasn't just impoliteness; it was open disrespect to a monarch, and the consequences could be dire. With a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he reached out, firmly grasping Fileyele's arm, and pulled her down into a kneeling bow.
Fileyele hissed, her hand instinctively rising as if to conjure a spell, a faint, dangerous glow flickering at her fingertips. But Caelen's grip tightened, his fingers digging into her forearm. He leaned in, his voice a low, urgent whisper that only she could hear. "You will do everything you want later, I swear it. But for now, I am pleading with you not to get yourself killed. Or worse, get us both killed." Fileyele's features, usually a mask of cool detachment, twisted with a rare flash of raw frustration. The magical glow at her fingertips faltered, then died. "I'm not bowing to her," she snarled, her voice barely a breath. "I'm only kneeling so you don't consequently die. And it better be worth it." The Queen's eyes, still fixed on them, held a dangerous glint. "Should I be worried?" Her voice, though soft, resonated with the quiet power of the throne room. "No, my Queen," Caelen answered, his own voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Then why the whispers?" she continued, her gaze unwavering. "Is she friend or foe? Or merely oblivious?"
"No, my Queen, nothing of such disrespect," Caelen hurried to assure her, his head still bowed. "If I may, my Queen…" "Yes, you may," she replied, a hint of impatience coloring her tone. Caelen took a deep breath. "My Queen, why does it seem as though everyone has forgotten me? The guards at the kingdom walls were bewildered by my sight. The people on the streets... they seemed afraid of me, rather than welcoming." A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken meaning. Then the Queen's voice, colder now, cut through it. "Who are you?" Caelen's head snapped up, his confusion genuine. "What do you mean, my Queen? It's me, Caelen." The Queen's eyes narrowed, her face hardening with a mix of anger and grief. "That cannot be," she stated, her voice infused with an almost infuriated certainty. "Because we already buried you. And half of our army. There is no more Caelen, because he is dead."
The words struck Caelen like a physical blow. Ashamed, bewildered, he dropped his gaze to the polished floor, the weight of her declaration pressing down on him. "Where were you?" the Queen continued, her voice rising now, laced with profound bitterness. "You left us at our time of desperate need. So many have died trying to keep this kingdom safe." Caelen raised his head, his brow furrowed in disbelief. "My Queen, that is impossible. I was only gone for four hours, perhaps a bit more." The Queen gazed at him, a profound weariness in her eyes. "What are you talking about? You've been away for days, Caelen. Days that felt like weeks as we fought. Ever since the last siege, you went missing. We looked and looked, but you were nowhere to be seen."
Caelen tossed a frantic glance at Fileyele, seeking some explanation, some confirmation, but she ignored his silent plea, turning her head slightly, her gaze distant and unreadable. "What good is a hero," the Queen continued, her voice tinged with a weary sorrow, "who cannot save anyone and is never there where needed?" Fileyele's eyes, previously shielded by her hood, widened. "Hero?!" she murmured, a barely audible whisper of surprise. "Krannoch nearly ended this entire civilization," the Queen went on, rubbing her temples as if warding off a headache. "He only retreated because a number of his army was wounded and he saw no reason to tread any further, because…"
Just then, the grand throne room doors, which had remained closed, swung open with a soft, practiced precision. All eyes turned as a figure entered, radiant and serene. It was the princess, Caelia. Her beauty was legendary, a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to awe all who beheld her. At this moment, as she stepped into the fraught silence of the throne room, she seemed an angel, a beacon of hope arriving precisely when Caelen felt most lost. Caelia's voice, clear and melodic, broke the tension. "Good evening, Mother. Caelen. Everyone." The courtiers and guards offered their respectful greetings in return, and the Queen's stern expression softened with warmth as she greeted her daughter. Caelia then gracefully moved to her seat on the right-hand side of her mother's throne, her presence a silent, calming balm.
Elsewhere, far to the west, near the treacherous, shadowy borderlands where Zhuyin bled into the wild expanse of Valmora, the very air shivered. A rift, shimmering with a sickly green light, tore open in the fabric of reality. From its glowing maw, four shadowy figures emerged, stepping onto the damp earth as if they owned not just this patch of wilderness, but the entire world. Their movements were fluid, predatory, their initial silence broken only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath their boots.
After a moment of surveying the desolate landscape, their gazes sweeping across the gnarled trees and ancient stones, they slowly pulled back their hoods. Rose, her face sharp and unyielding, was the first. Beside her, Leira, with a smirk that hinted at constant amusement. Then Nivah, whose expression was calm, almost detached. And finally, Syrae, her eyes keen and constantly assessing. They were the Crown's elite, sent on a singular, grim hunt: to retrieve Fileyele, now considered a rogue witch, and to neutralize Caelen, the perplexing anomaly tied to her.
Without a word, they each made a subtle gesture. The air around them rippled, and their forms seemed to dissolve into the deepening twilight. They weren't just hidden; they were blended, their presence so unnervingly absorbed by the dark that they became indistinguishable from the very shadows of the night. From the highest branch of a gnarled oak, Syrae's voice, dry and raspy, cut through the quiet. "I can see lights from afar. To the east and in the west. And it seems there are fires to the south." Leira scoffed, her voice edged with a dismissive amusement. "It could just be a bunch of humans, wasting their energy in war again. It's so easy manipulating them." Rose, sharp and immediate, silenced her. "Keep shut, Leira. What if the trees hear you? Are you willing to waste the Crown's efforts due to your inability to shut your mouth?"
Leira's eyes glittered with competitive defiance. "If trees did have ears, which they don't, they would be mindful not to eavesdrop on shadows, lest they wanted their heads off their necks." Nivah dropped silently from a lower branch, landing with the grace of a cat. "If you two want to sabotage the mission because you can't get along, we might as well just stop here." "It's not an argument," Rose stated, her voice cool and authoritative. "It's beneath me. I'm just reminding her who's in charge. We aren't going to that fight. Fileyele isn't likely to go there." "Then her only option," Nivah mused, "would be to rely on the human to get her way through the world." "Then we head to a populated area and search for them," Rose declared, her decision final. "And kill them!" Leira interjected, a gleeful anticipation in her tone. Syrae, still perched above, asked, "Do we really have to kill Fileyele? Or just the human?" "I don't see the point of keeping both," Nivah stated plainly. "They should both die."
"Enough bickering," Rose commanded, her voice cutting off further debate. "We're going east." Little did they know that east was in the direction of Zhuyin, the 1st kingdom. In a bed chamber within a different castle, a man stirred, shaking himself awake from a restless sleep. This was Thallen. He rose, walked to a basin, and splashed cool water over his face, shaking away the lingering tendrils of sleep. Wiping his face with a linen cloth, he strode towards a polished mirror, his gaze falling upon his own reflection. "Enter," he called out, his voice crisp. The door opened, and a soldier entered, bowing low. "Prepare the royal guard," Thallen ordered, his voice resonating with quiet authority. "We will be expecting guests." The guard, without question, bowed again and exited, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Thallen remained by the mirror, his lips slowly curving into a knowing grin.